Altruism and Party Masks
by the.interwebs
Summary: Perhaps an abusive family does not make for an alruistic child and maybe masks are for more than just parties. A manipulative, dark, and overall psychotic Harry who knows his place on the stage. Things aren't looking up.


A/N:

I wrote this in a very dark part of my life. I don't know if there'll be more.

If you don't like blood or violence, go now.

Enjoy.

* * *

 **ACT ONE: IN THE BEGINNING**

* * *

..-:-..

 _September - Dark Eyes and the Threat of Rain_

The sky was a clear light grey, the soft color intensifying the shade of any to enter its frame. The almost bare trees stood black against the smooth light, and the small birds that flitted through the branches were mere specks of tar. A silken whisper blew between limbs and a fiery leaf drifted from the treetops to lay among its fallen brothers. The stirring reached a figure standing as still as the giants that surrounded it, and a flicker of inky hair swept in front of deep emerald eyes.

Crimson dripped slowly off of once pale hands, flecks of ruby dried to the boy's emotionless face. An ethereal stare was fixed on the disfigured deer that lay at his feet, the once delicate limbs and tan chest now contorted and leaking scarlet onto a blanket of leaves. Delicate lips as red as blood twisted into a sweet smile as the sky grew dark with rain.

* * *

 _May - Kitchen Lights and Bread_

The yellow kitchen lights flickered slightly as they glared, drowning the pristine room in a harsh artificial illumination. Verdant eyes squeezed shut as another blow landed. The cool white tile bit at exposed skin as a belt slashed through the air to mark the pale figure curled upon himself. The overweight man who was swinging the leather shook in his fury, whipping till his arms burned and his breath huffed and his teeth gleamed in satisfaction. Blood once again covered the boy, though this time not by his own volition. The smell of fresh bread in the oven wafted gently over, making the boy's stomach turn. Beady eyes shot down to the folded child, and hate flashed through eyes and sneers.

"Put the dinner on the table then clean this mess up. Once the kitchen is spotless you will get back in your cupboard."

The boy stirred. The man and his stomach exited the white room with a loud call to the other occupants of the house. Dinner was in five minutes.

Stretching, the aches and cracks and bruises and welts were already forming. A caress of silver energy, the kind that only he could see which had the ability to do magical things, and the pain diminished enough to move. Careful not to drip blood, mitts were retrieved from the wooden cabinets and bread pulled out to sit upon the fake granite countertops. A snarl from his midsection told the boy that five days with just water was stretching his limits. The roof of the school is not where he should have ended up, especially after bringing home higher marks than the other child. It hadn't mattered he didn't try to do either, his stomach was still suffering.

The table set, the boy began to wipe the ruby stained floor. The others came in, ignoring him and the blood, and ate with happy and calm conversation. The son grunted, the mother cooed, the father barked, and the boy scrubbed.

Dinner ended with three stomachs bloated and two hands raw. The stairs creaked as a family climbed to bed and a boy opened its cupboard. Still shirtless and bloody the boy sank onto a small cot, his delicate features utterly still. Soft silver wisps filled the darkness as they curled down and through gaunt arms and legs, the smooth energy snapping bones back into place and soothing the burning welts. The energy was probably the only thing to keep the boy alive, but when it was finished there were still many bruises. The large man only tried harder if all the marks left too soon. Black lashes fluttered shut and a metallic tang hung heavy in the air. No sleep came, and the boy hoped in the morning there was bread.

* * *

 _A Brief Introduction - Learning and Playing_

The boy learned as he grew. He learned maths and reading and science and history. He learned French and German and Japanese and Latin. He learned crying never helped and red was a primary color. He learned to keep his mouth shut unless sure of every outcome. He learned to run and hide and to curl up to protect his vital organs. He learned to clean up blood, both his own and others. He learned he could move things by thinking about it, that he could see energy around himself and sometimes strangers. He learned he could draw spectacularly and it was something that maintained his calm. He learned about masks and how to stay unnoticed. He learned about what motivated people and how to read them and how to use them. He learned piano and violin were calming and undeniably beautiful. He learned self defense and to move fluidly. He learned the brief emotions he had had when he was very young were always useless. He learned knowledge was power and learning was vital. He learned the power game was the only thing that ever mattered.

He read everything he could get his hands on whenever he could.

He acted, as though in a theatrical production of his life, simply to survive. He was exceptionally polite in school, though he did poorly to avoid beatings. At the house he did everything that was demanded in silence to the same end. Alone, when he felt blank, he plotted, and he only smiled for two things. Death and calm.

Death was beautiful and exquisite and he liked to bring it around. The sweet flow of scarlet life creeping past a creature's skin. The musical whimpers and screams that danced along his eardrums. The twisted carcasses placed ever just so. Perhaps his appreciation was immoral, but the brief pleasure was worth the quick slice of an animal's life or the slight mental scarring of another child.

The calm from his hobbies was just as beautiful. The soft caress of a melody shifting past a harmony. The intricate sweep of a brush or the painstaking creation of an inked dimension. The expression provided was exactly necessary.

Of course the boy was perfectly charming. His eyes were an arresting green and the silver specks floating in his irises only added to his unearthly looks. His delicate features were decidedly graceful and his messy black hair provided such a curled contrast to his creamy skin that the effect was rather divine. He was ever so polite and unerringly calm and respectful, always using his manners. The slightly shy boy who apologized for getting a nosebleed after receiving a punch was a wonderful, if slightly sad, child. It was to his advantage to act thus. No one suspected his mutilations and the man rarely had reason to add a beating, not that he needed one. So the boy learned and grew and read. But Harry Potter never got bread in the morning.

 _July 31 - Letters and Begonias_

It sat, the heavy cream broken by a single blood red crest and acid green ink. A letter. Four sections of the design adorned with a serpent and an eagle and a badger and a lion, the whole thing set upon a curling crimson banner which read;

 _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus. 'Never tickle a sleeping dragon.'_

Perfect curls of an abrasive hue spelled out that someone knew he slept under the stairs. It stared at him from his long fingers, begging to be opened. Rich gold energy coated the letter, it stretched and reached one lazy finger to curl about his hands. He batted it away with his own tendril and proceeded to smother the unknown energy until the letter lay clear, the staring eyes vanished and no need to open entered his mind. Only then did he slit the tab and remove two heavy sheets of parchment, covered in midnight loops.

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, _

_Grand Sorcerer,_

 _Cheif Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress

A swish to read the second page, revealed an odd list of required items.

Harry's eyes squeezed shut. _Magic_. He had always known he was different, better, but this was breathtaking. The energy that had always swirled about him made much more sense now, but he wondered why they waited till eleven to start school when he had been able to use it since five. Yet, he was sure telling his uncle about the letter would end in a beating. So what to do.

A return owl was due by today. July 31, he was eleven. Well he didn't know where to find any owls and there was no address for mail. But, if _Professor McGonagall_ knew he lived in the dingy little cupboard under the stairs then surely she would know he had no owl. He would have to wait for her to try harder, or he would finally run away. He certainly wasn't going to risk a beating over an unsure endeavor.

A screech from his aunt, why was the boy still in his cupboard and didn't he know they wouldn't house lazy freaks, carried Harry out from the dark. Coils of silver dressed the letter and it vanished from sight into some unknown. His energy, _magic,_ purredanddanced with his mood, the only indication that he was anything but perfectly calm.

Uncle Vernon was plopped in a chair in the sparkling kitchen while Aunt Petunia was pushing a bit of egg around a pan. She glanced up at his entrance and pushed the pan towards him with a glare. Harry finished the cooking as Dudley pounded down the stairs stomach first. The three person table loaded with food, Harry entered the backyard and began the gardening as usual. Bright begonias watched him as weeds were snatched from their homes. As he gardened in his typical methodical manner he searched the brush for mice. He had seen them once before and was rather in need of a quick visit from Death.

Suddenly a deep red and pale brass colored energy snapped into existence and started moving towards the indistinct house. It felt vast and he hoped this was the professor; certainly it was someone else with magic. He had thought the wait would be longer. A mask fell over the young boy's face; hands moved with delicacy and practice instead of their normal deadly precision, eyes were lit with uncontrolled excitement instead of the customary deadness, lips parted slightly in a small smile as a soft tune floated out into the summer air. First impressions were important after all. The magic source strode to the Dursley's door and a bell shot through the empty conversation from the kitchen. Harry stood and wiped his knees; it was time to learn.

* * *

 _July 31 - Disappointment and a Whale_

Minerva McGonagall was disappointed. Letters had been sent and all students had received the invitations, it was time to go on her yearly rounds. The strict Scottish woman always visited each and every Muggleborn student to answer questions and ensure that the children were going. She would take each family to Diagon Alley and inform them of the way the Hogwarts Express was accessible.

She had been doing these rounds for twenty years, and knew they would take a while. Each year the amount of Muggleborn students rose, and she had to spend almost a day with each family. This year there were six Muggleborns and one half-blood raised Muggle. It would take seven days until she could return to lesson planning. Professor McGonagall would start today with the hardest case.

And so it was with great disappointment the professor found herself first visiting Mr. Potter, a boy who should never have been on her list. The muggle neighborhood she apparated to seemed to be one house copied endlessly, the only difference was the shade of flowers potted out front.

The typical street had been unchanged in the ten years since she had last visited, but she hoped the end result of this trip would be much happier than the last. As she strode towards number Four, Privet Drive, a sweet melody greeted her from one of the back gardens, and a slight smile graced harsh lines as the witch rang the bell. Moments passed in new silence till a man, bearing a passing resemblance to an obese, red walrus, yanked the door open. He eyed the woman's plain, stern dress suit, and her severe face. His mustache twitched.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes I'm sure you can, Mr. Dursely?" A quick nod from the bloated figure, "I'm here about Mr. Potter."

The man growled, "What has the boy done now?"

He turned at the shrill call from within, "Vernon, do invite whoever it is inside, the weather is quite hot today."

Mr. Dursley twitched again, "Yes, please, come sit down." The man relinquished the door and tramped inside. The house was done in blinding whites and muddy browns, supposed warm colors crushed by the smell of cleaners. Through the entry way rested a colorless kitchen with antiseptic overpowering the fresh cooked bacon split on three plates to the left. Mrs. Dursley had risen to greet the guest, and motioned with a pained smile to the sitting room on the right. A young blonde beach ball continued to stuff himself with breakfast, and no black hair sat at either of the other two seats. McGonagall frowned.

"I'm terribly sorry for the mess; we had just sat down to breakfast." Another pained smile from the thin woman, "So, Mrs...?"

"McGonagall."

"Mrs. McGonagall, what's this about?"

"I'm here to see Mr. Potter, is he home?"

"Yes, Vernon could you call him?" A loud bellow of 'boy' was issued, "Is there something wrong? I'm sure as soon as we know the problem it can be quickly solved. Really I don't know how much longer this can go on, we've told that boy a thousand times he's to stop causing trouble."

McGonagall's frowned deepened, "No, he's not in any trouble." The back door opened and the boy entered.

Bulky clothes hung off a small form, rips and dirt adorning the boy's knees. Black hair fell to his shoulders and flared up at the tips rebelliously, jade irises fixed on tearing trainers. The boy glanced up as he slid into the room and his eyes, slight fear, hope and excitement all bundled up, caught the professors. He sat gingerly in the chair farthest from his uncle.

"Is something the matter, Aunt Petunia?" His voice was melodic, mimicking the tune McGonagall had heard on the way in.

"Mr. Potter, my name is Professor McGonagall and I'm here to ensure your letter was received and that there are no questions, as well as to guide you to buying your supplies. You did receive a letter?"

The boys gaze darted between his relatives and the professor, the fear and excitement visibly growing. "I got the letter. Does that mean... magic is real?"

The large man erupted swiftly and the floor shook as he took to his feet, "M-Magic? When did you get a letter, boy?! No! There'll be no freakishness, no going to that school! We knew when we took you in this might come but you're not going!" His face swelled plum and the boy withered. The blonde boy paused in his gorging and scurried into the other room, plate in hand. Mrs. Dursley was sheet white and McGonagall's face had drawn even more stern, her lips a severe line.

"Mr. Dursley," McGonagall snapped, "how dare you yell at a child! Harry Potter will be going to Hogwarts as generations of Potters before him have. How dare you refuse his invitation, with no consideration to him, his well being, or the well being of your family. He will learn how to control and master his magic in a safe way. There is nothing you can do to stop him from going; his name has been on the list since he was born. Unless Mr. Potter himself refuses, I will not allow your petty distaste of magic to withhold this child from his education."

The whale of a man quivered, his face plunging ever purple. His jowls shook and his fists clenched.

"I will not pay for some crackpot old fools to teach the boy magic tricks!"

McGonagall stood up then to meet him, her face stone. Her voice twitched with cool rage and power.

"Mr. Dursley. I will be taking Mr. Potter to get his school supplies today. Mr. Potter will be at Kings Cross Station on September first by eleven o'clock. If you attempt to stop either of these things from happening I will take immediate action."

Her voice softened as she turned towards Harry. "Mr. Potter. If it is alright with you, I think now would be a good time to retrieve your supplies. That is, if you would like to come to Hogwarts?"

The boy's voice awed, "Yes. Yes I want to go." His face shone.

"Alright we can leave now. Come along." She stood and marched towards the door, the young boy hurrying after.

"I always knew you'd be a freak," a pitched howl followed them from the tight woman, "just like your mother! We tried so hard to keep it out of you, but you were always hopeless!"

The door slammed shut. Professor McGonagall sighed heavily and peered down at Harry.

"Are they always like that, Mr. Potter?"

He shrugged, "Only when the freaki- ...magic happens. Professor?"

She tried her best to keep the anger out of her voice; it wasn't directed at him after all, "Yes?"

"Can you prove magic exists? And that you have it? I'm not very keen on being abducted, is all." He had a small smile but stood warily.

McGonagall's lips twitched and her heart warmed. "Not anything big around the muggles, ah, non-magical people. But, I will need to apparate us to Diagon Alley. Apparition is magic that's similar to muggle teleportation, but you have to have been wherever you're going. Diagon Alley is the main shopping area in Britain, it's located in London and hidden from all the muggles, and it's where we'll buy your things. Now, hold onto my arm, I'm going to side along apparate you. Here we go."

A crack, and the tall stern woman and small excited boy disappeared from sight.

* * *

 _July 31 - Canaries and a Sticky Stage_

It was an old pub and it was a little dirty, but if you paid attention you could tell it was well cared for. The floor was glossed with a bit of dirt but it was clear of any trash. The chairs were rickety and squeaked when someone shifted but the seats were so stuffed with padding it was doubtless they were comfortable. The rag being used to wipe down glasses was grey but only with age and certainly not mold. The room, neat but not clean, was clearly loved if you paid attention.

And Harry Potter always paid attention.

But if you asked him in that moment what the color of the walls were he wouldn't have been able to tell you.

His vision was smothered in the light of so much energy, the intense colors swirling around every person and an outline around the room that was crackling. Harry had always observed the empty grey that rested in every person, muggles, he supposed, and he had witnessed the very occasional person that was blanketed in hued magic, but never before had he been so inundated with light. It was beautiful.

It was also exceptionally disorienting. He stumbled slightly and attempted to focus on the tangible. The professor clasped his shoulder so that he then had to battle off a shudder. It was rare that any hands were on him, and even rarer those hands had good intentions. Through the haze he glimpsed an amused smile and McGonagall's magic pulsed a warmer maroon.

"It's quite normal to become dizzy after an apparition, you'll become used to it in no time."

He slipped out of her hand under the pretense of righting himself, and they started through the crowd. People swarmed about as colours, each energy mixing between some and being repulsed by others. There was almost every color of the rainbow but the dominant was blue. The Professor began to slide forward and Harry almost lost her in the sea of light. He slipped after her though, keeping his eyes trained on her maroon. It was rather impossible. He couldn't see any real object and the magic of each person flowed about as though living. To make matters even worse there were concentrations of magic that didn't belong to anybody and were similar to the energy around his letter, detached and weaker but still blinding. In his blindness he stumbled into quite a few things; drawing lots of eyes and whispers. A nightmare for a situation self tailor with no situational information. Harry couldn't prepare the best act without the scene and the most dangerous decision an actor can make is to go off script. Any one action or expression could ruin his reputation, his opportunities, and any future plans. If only he could see, assess. Blind and disoriented, Harry Potter made a split second decision that would affect his entire future. He was friendly.

Harry smiled his sincerest embarrassed smile, and apologized in his sweetest tone to anyone listening. He heard his name and was then overwhelmed by people.

The sudden concentration of magic was quickly much more blinding, then it vanished. It was as though someone had turned out the light and Harry saw the stuffed seats and the bartenders rag and all of the people that surrounded him. He was baffled, and that had not happened in perhaps, well he supposed it had only been a minute but before then it had been years. He shook hands, he smiled and thanked people who wanted to thank him, he shook more hands.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Potter!"

"Dorris Crockford, Mr. Potter, it's an honor."

"Mr. Potter we are all so grateful!"

It was, perhaps, overwhelming, but Harry would never let a mask fall and he had chosen to be absolutely charming. He used his most bashful tone, "Please, I am very glad to meet you, thank you ever so much. I must say Mrs. Crockford your hat is quite charming. I am the one grateful for such warm people, certainly. Thank you, thank you." He tried to force a blush, it had been something he was working on. Professor McGonagall had pushed her way through the throng by then and began shooing people away, much to their dismay. After the third handshake from Dedalus Diggles; a new man who had lingered along the fringes crept up to Harry and the professor. His gait was stuttered and his posture slick, his eyes slid about the room.

He mumbled, "P-P-P-Professor McG-G-Gonag-gall. I s-see you hav-ve st-t-t-tarted your r-rounds."

"Yes, Professor Quirrel," Professor McGonagall's voice bounced with impatience, "I started the orientations with young Mr. Potter here. Mr. Potter, this is Professor Quirrel, who shall be you Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year."

Professor Quirell settled his eyes upon Harry's and Harry lifted his lips in an uncharacteristically genuine smile. He looked much like a cat with a canary, and fixed his face as quickly as possible, cursing his mistake.

Quirell's eyes had betrayed him. In them, Harry saw black, a black so deep that it was visible when magic was not. It was such a clear misstep in the dance of deception, for one's eyes to be so focused when one's character was skittish. Harry was utterly intrigued as to what crept behind the façade.

"I'm sure it will be an absolute pleasure, sir. I'm very excited to start school." Harry kept his voice fluffy.

"Yes, I am-m quite look-k-king forward-d to it myself-f." His eyes had long sidled past, but Harry continued to watch the black slush.

Professor McGonagall broke the one sided staring contest. "Well we must be off, I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor Quirell."

"Yes-s, indeed." Quirrel shook off towards a table, and McGonagall once again grasped Harry's shoulder. It was even more revolting than before.

"Come along, Mr. Potter."

She led him to a back door and into a thin alleyway.

..-:-..


End file.
